The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (6 page)

I thought my wrist might snap, he'd twisted it so far behind my back. I swallowed the cry that threatened to erupt from my throat. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

In his left hand he held a wire rug beater and raised it above his head. He shook it, in the same
way I'd shaken my fist just moments before.

“There'll be a beating here today,” he said, fairly spitting the words at me.

I braced myself for the blow when I heard Addie descend the stairs. He released my wrist, glared, and thrust the rug beater at me.

“Take this and the hallway runner outside and beat it until it's clean. Do you understand me, missy?”

Addie stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide at his icy tone of voice. “And one more thing,” he said. He turned toward Addie. “You'll see to it that this wench stays out of the cellar.” He turned to me. “Now,
get out
!”

I flew up the stairs, rug beater in hand, and grabbed the hallway runner from the floor. Aunt Margaret, who had a way of slinking around eavesdropping, clearly had overheard the whole exchange. She smugly shoved a basket of darning into my other hand.

“While you're at it,” she said, and turned on her heel.

I set out toward the water, Mr. Pugsley trotting along behind me. My hands were still trembling, and the white anger I'd felt toward Victor was finally dissipating, turning my joints to jelly.

Yet, as always, the sight of the sea and the feel of
the ocean air bolstered my spirit. I loved the ruffle of white foam curling around the shore on the crest of the waves, the way the water slipped in between the rocky crevices and was sucked back, over and over again. Down, down we hiked, along the rocky path toward the shore, each step stronger and more determined than the previous. The hypnotic tune found its way to my lips still again—
“A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee”
—perhaps because it was the last tune Father and I sang together. How I wished I knew the rest of the lyrics.

My eyes were suddenly drawn to a small strip of shore where the water glittered brilliantly and bubbled over a narrow ribbon of sand, skirting a number of black rocks. I paused beside a slight dip in the ground sheltered by rosebushes, a spot unseen from the path. I shoved the carpet, the beater, and the basket of needlework inside the fragrant hideaway and continued on, drawn to the place that seemed to be churning diamonds in the surf. I stepped quickly, deftly, off the path, rock to ledge, stone to stone, down, down, down toward the hypnotizing tide, so dazzling now that I had to shield my eyes with my hand. The surf rushed in, splashing over my shoes and the edges of my skirts, but still I pressed on, inexplicably drawn to the spot. Between the surge and slosh
of the sea, I heard something else that my heart recognized before I could name it. I froze. It was the sound of Father's flute, playing that tune that refused to leave my mind! I looked down. Gasped.

Upon hitting the rocks beneath me, the incoming waves burst into a million sparkling particles that curled and tingled around my feet and ankles. The gleaming vaporous mass crested for an instant and ebbed, receding with the tide.

But there at my feet, balanced precariously on the craggy rock, was Father's flute, delivered up from the sea! It dripped salt water and diamond glitter, still playing the tune of its own accord. It hummed, tingled.
A la dee dah dah, a la dee dah dee
—each note carried by a lilt and puff of sparkling vapor like the breath of a phantom flautist. I bent, snatched it up, put it to my lips, my fingers drawn to the tone holes. Guided by an unknown force, I began to play. At the end of the refrain I stopped, incredulous, and held the flute out before me.

Mr. Pugsley whined, and his small curlicue tail began wagging frantically. His paws slipped and slid on the slick stones. “What is it, Mr. Pugsley?” I asked, with some alarm. Someone must be near! With trembling hands I placed the precious flute deep in my pocket for safekeeping. Mr. Pugsley's little rump wiggled side to side, and he shot ahead.
I grabbed him just in time, held his wriggling body against me, and leaned forward for a look.

There she was, just down the shore, different in the afternoon light, but somehow still the same. She walked smoothly toward the water in a regal way. This was no idle stroll—her movements were strong and purposeful.

Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat braid, her limbs long and graceful. I was certain that the gray robe she wore was the very same one she'd wrapped around herself on the night of the full moon. As she reached the water's edge, she looked around as if to make certain she was not being watched, and let the robe slip from her shoulders.

I covered my mouth with my hand. She wore nothing at all beneath the robe, and in her nakedness moved surely, confidently into the sea. The only sign that the water was cold was a slight hunching of her shoulders, and a slow lifting and lengthening of her neck above the water.

She glided out with strong, sure strokes, her braid trailing the surface like a sleek water snake. She swam for a bit, then floated, occasionally diving underwater, resurfacing with a blink of her eyes, her mouth open for a wide gulp of air.

I held Mr. Pugsley tight and carried him up, up, back to the rosebush hideaway, where I could watch
without being detected. I lifted the branches and quickly ducked inside. The hanging boughs surrounded me in tangled masses, dotted with small, dense deep-pink roses. I pushed one aside, creating a peephole, and there—I spotted the old woman still swimming with confident, smooth strokes.

Something farther down the thin strip of sandy beach caught my eye. Not wanting to take my eyes off the woman, I stole a glance in the other direction.

Mr. Pugsley saw it too, the short tawny hair on his back bristling in alarm. Holding his squirming body close, I felt the low rumble of his growl and the rapid drumroll of his heart.

It was the Brute, barreling across the beach. He called out to the woman in a menacing voice, words carried off by the ocean breeze, hands waving above his head.

She became immediately alert, interrupted her stroke, and drew herself up like a curious otter. Did I just imagine her eyes narrowing, or did I actually see it? She dived forward and swam in a straight line toward the shore. This I watched with a sense of impending danger, as it was clear the Brute was closer to her robe than she was.

That was when Mr. Pugsley shoved off against me with his small sturdy legs and projected himself
out of the rosebush and onto the trail.

“No, Mr. Pugsley!” I shouted, but as I moved to follow him, I stopped short. No one knew of my hiding place, and I could not reveal it to the Brute. Biting my lip, I pulled back and watched as Mr. Pugsley tore down the path, kicking up clouds of dust in his wake.

The Brute slowed to a stop and turned—first his head, then his entire frame—in the direction of the little beast. “No, Mr. Pugsley,” I whispered. “Stay away from him!” Tears welled up in my eyes. I was ashamed that my terror held me back, that I was powerless to intervene for my canine friend.

“Is that you, you ungrateful …,” the Brute began, the rest of his ugly words lost to the wind. He lunged at Mr. Pugsley, but the little dog was too nimble for him, passing around behind him, nipping at the legs of his ragged pants.

“You son of the devil …”

The Brute bent over and swept his hand in a powerful arc toward the dog and kicked wildly in an attempt to shake Mr. Pugsley free of his pants.

The sight of the woman slipping into the gray robe was almost lost to me, so engaged was I in poor Mr. Pugsley's fate. I watched, scarcely breathing, as the Brute stomped his feet around my little
friend, and I nearly cheered as Mr. Pugsley let go at precisely the right moment, scooting back between the giant's legs. Trying to keep the little fellow in his sights, the Brute spun about, and must have lost his balance on the thin strand of slippery rocks, driftwood, and debris that edged the shore. He went down like a felled tree, and Mr. Pugsley took the opportunity to grab his shirtsleeve, shaking it violently back and forth. He must have connected with skin, because amid the growling and the tearing of cloth, I heard the Brute cry out and grab at his arm.

The little dog trotted back, head raised high, clearly proud of his work. Before the man could right himself, Mr. Pugsley scrambled off, disappearing into the tall grass that ran along the shore.

I sank back in relief, but only for an instant. I watched the Brute peering about, and that was when we made the discovery together—that both the old woman and the dog were gone. I followed the Brute's crazed gaze to the water's edge, to the place where her robe had been.

He turned this way and that, eyes furtively searching the shore as well as the cliffs above. “I'll get you yet,” he shouted, “you sea hag, you, you … witch of the water!” He raised his fist high, gesturing wildly, calling out into the salty air. I
stayed perfectly still, watching as his eyes skimmed past my hiding place, and followed his retreat into the knoll of pines until he disappeared altogether. I stared out for what seemed like hours, desperately looking for Mr. Pugsley, and wondering where on earth the old woman had gone.

Suddenly I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Without thinking I jumped to my feet, the thorny branches scratching my face, yanking my hair. I gasped. My hiding place was no longer a secret.

“S
hhh!” she said, crouching down and pushing past me into the hideout. I stared, openmouthed. “Who …? What?” I stammered.

“Shhh!” she repeated, more vehemently.

I gaped at her holding Mr. Pugsley tightly against her chest. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, staring through the space in the bushes.

“Sit down, sit down!” she whispered, flapping her hand like the wing of a bird. I knelt alongside her, shamelessly studying her strong profile. Wispy silver strands had escaped her braid and hung along the sides of her face, reminding me of the
side feathers on an Indian headdress. Her skin was a warm honey brown, sun-weathered and deeply lined. A long, straight nose was chiseled in between high cheekbones—all of which completed the look of an Indian brave. Her eyes were quite riveting—the palest shade of green—and staring at them from the side made me think of a pair of shiny aqua marbles. In the hollow of her throat hung a large oval silver locket.

I watched her expression change from rapt attention to one of slight amusement, the skin around those fine eyes crinkling, the corners of her mouth turning slightly up. She cast a quick glance my way, nodded outward with her chin in the direction of the path, and then raised a long, bony index finger to her lips as a reminder for silence. She tipped her head, a motion that made me listen more closely.

That was when I detected a weak huffing sound out along the path. She raised an eyebrow at me and I nodded, acknowledging that we both heard it. The huffing got louder, raspier, an escalating series of ragged pants and gasps. I knew even before I saw him—it was the Brute climbing the steep trail in pursuit of the woman he'd called a sea hag, a witch of the sea. The woman I was crouching beside, who had my dog in her arms.

And, I might add, I felt more than a tinge of
jealousy at Mr. Pugsley's carrying on. There he was in her arms, flirting in the way he usually reserved for me, blinking his long-lashed brown eyes adoringly, nudging her hand with his nose, looking for a pat on the head, snuggling as close as he could. And, not only that—as the Brute emerged over the summit, I'd have expected a barrage of yipping and ferocious growling, but Mr. Pugsley behaved like a docile lamb.

This was a good thing, because the Brute placed himself like a sentinel at the top of the trail, not fifteen feet from where we hid, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering down toward the shore. He muttered under his breath, and shook his head of wild black hair in agitation. I strained to hear the snippets of his utterings that drifted toward us: “playing with magic,” “swimming like a siren,” “the singing of a sea nymph.”

We both knew whom he was referring to. She gave me a quick glance, her eyes amused, one corner of her mouth pulled up in a half smile, an eyebrow raised. The smile I returned felt stiff and peculiar on my face.

The Brute's words disturbed me. Not the babbling about playing with magic. No. It was the part about the sirens—the sea nymphs—that sent a chill along my spine. I remembered all too well
Father's tales of these mythical sea creatures whose haunting songs charmed seamen to leap into the sea to their deaths. I recalled the painting back in our library of Ulysses, the famous Greek mariner bound to the mast of his ship in order to resist the sirens' death call.

I couldn't help but wonder whether my own father, and perhaps the Brute himself, had heard such a call on that fateful day. Or whether the Brute's words had something to do with the terrible curse Aunt Pru referred to. Those thoughts continued to pull at the edges of my brain, the image of that painting I'd always found fascinating—in a dark, foreboding way—nudging me. It was as if there was something important I was missing, something almost understood but just beyond my grasp. At that moment I felt the flute tingle against my skin through the lining in my pocket. Or perhaps it was a shiver.

The Brute, apparently satisfied that the woman had vanished, threw up his hands and started off again down the path. We watched him trudge along the zigzagging trail until he reached the shore. He stared across the water for some time before moving down the beach and into the pine grove in the distance.